Why is it that married men being abandoned by their wives for any length of time are given the full monty nudge-nudge, wink-wink treatment? The word “bachelor” is bandied about with more innuendoes than it could possibly contain. No real bachelor gets the rolling-eye, raised eyebrow treatment that a married man is served up by friends, or neighbours, when he finds his wife has upped and left for a holiday of considerable length. That there are no children to keep an eye out for dad seems to make it worse, as if raging hormones were a middle-aged affliction, not a teenager’s disease.
With my wife and daughter travelling the world, and my son back at college, it’s true that I do have a three-week sabbatical from their presence, if not their care — but it isn’t as if I’ve been done in by depraved “Western” influences. Even should there be the inclination to fraternise with people of questionable integrity, the presence at home of the domestic staff, the vigilantism of the neighbourhood aunties, and the eagle-eyed questioning of the guards at the gate would be enough to discourage it.
The one thing I had been looking forward to during the absence of the family was the freedom to enjoy the silence that comes with solitude — but this, alas, was not to be. Ours is the age of communication, and I was soon to discover that there were altogether too many live phones at home: Landlines and broadband lines and mobile phones which rang serially, the callers wanting to know where my wife was, what I was doing at home, what I was up to all by myself — “if you are alone, that is (chuckle! chuckle!)”. As an example of humour, it bordered on the juvenile, and after the first few cheesy calls, I confess to being a little short and hanging up on some clearly superficial pretext.
This must have alerted the self-commissioned neighbourhood watch squad, for the doorbell seemed not to cease ringing ever after. Padma came looking to borrow sugar (instead of sending her maid) and stopped long enough to natter, in which time she needed to visit the toilet, and then stopped to peek briefly into the bedrooms. Meenu brought her husband, whom I’d never met before, which didn’t stop him from asking: “Enjoying yourself?” And they said yes they’d have a glass of water each, stayed for tea, and went only after Meenu had topped up her cola with a “little something” from the bar while admonishing her husband for gulping down his third whisky. Shanti and her husband insisted I go to their house for dinner, ostensibly to keep me “away from mischief”. Had I been planning any mischief, I wouldn’t have found the time for it. Without my knowledge, or approval, I was inveigled into going out for coffee, to the club for a swim, for a movie at the multiplex, and shopping with the family next door, when all I longed for was to be left alone to read. Impossible deadlines for numbingly boring tasks were laid at my door: Writing a lengthy resume for somebody’s first job, drafting the legalese for a home lease, drawing up plans and noting down instructions to the carpenter for a cabinet that would never get made, the thankless task of thinking up and arguing over a party menu for a party that was never held, and filling up loan or visa application forms for friends (to be thrown away on some pretext). It’s been only a few days but I’ve had my fill of being a born-again bachelor, and can’t wait for my wife to return so that amidst the noise and chaos of her presence, I can catch up with my own life again.
